After the Storm (The Wildhaven Ranch #4)

Chapter One

I crest the last hill, and Wildhaven Storm Ranch stretches out before me, wide and lush and so achingly familiar that my throat tightens. Late spring has colored the entrance with an array of wildflowers.

Home.

The big white ranch house stands proud against the Wyoming sky, porch lights glowing even though the sun hasn’t fully dipped behind the Tetons yet.

Pastures roll out in waves of green and amber.

Horses dot the fields like living brushstrokes.

The land is still teeming with activity.

Tractors roar across the field. Ranch hands hustle to finish the day’s work.

A lot has changed since I left for college.

The scene has grown and expanded. There are new buildings, new arenas, new cabins, and new parking areas.

Unfamiliar faces have arrived. But the main house and our old barn are exactly where they’ve always been, their paint a little more weathered but as beautiful and steady as ever.

I roll down the car window and let the wind hit my face and whisper to the land, “It’s good to be home.”

Four years at the University of Wyoming passed in the blink of an eye.

My degree—bachelor of science in outdoor recreation and tourism management—sits framed on the passenger seat. A comprehensive program, they called it. Connecting people to the outdoors. Guest and hospitality services. Tourism management. Outdoor recreation enterprise.

Big words to describe the dream I’ve always known in my bones.

This place is magic. And one day, I plan to share it with the world.

Not in a gimmicky, plastic-horses-and-souvenir-mugs kind of way or a cartoony yeehaw, welcome to the country, city slickers!

dude-ranch way. But something intentional.

Something sacred. A guest ranch experience rooted in authenticity.

Morning rides through dew-heavy pastures.

Evenings around a fire under a sky so thick with stars that it entrances you.

Slow mornings with coffee on the porch. Meals consisting of locally raised and harvested food.

Trail rides and mountain hikes. Kids riding bikes go down to swim in the river.

And maybe—okay, definitely—a small, full-service spa tucked discreetly into the lodgepole pines.

Stone and glass with steam rising against the winter air.

Luxury doesn’t have to mean extravagant opulence or costly indulgence.

It can be a simple, high-quality, and carefully curated experience—something unexpected that helps guests escape their high-stress, fast-paced lives.

Leaving behind computers, phone screens, traffic, and noise so they can reconnect with nature, each other, and themselves.

I pull into the long gravel drive, and before I even kill the engine, the front door flies open.

My sister Shelby barrels down the porch steps first, all long limbs and wild blonde hair. “She’s here!”

Charli appears next with a huge smile planted on her face, followed by Matty—a very pregnant Matty—who steps out slower, one hand braced at the small of her back, the other on the porch railing.

Daddy walks around from the back of the house with Grandpa Earl at his side. Grandma Evelyn stands on the porch like a queen surveying her kingdom. Our cousin Cabe emerges from the barn with his parents, Aunt Irene and Uncle Boone.

The entire Storm clan.

I barely get the car door open before Shelby slams into me.

“You’re done!” she squeals.

“Officially educated with the papers to prove it,” I declare, laughing as Charli joins the tackle-hug.

Matty reaches us last, smiling that soft, tired smile she’s been wearing lately. The glow of impending motherhood resting on her like a halo.

“You did it,” she says quietly.

Something in her voice makes my eyes sting.

“I did,” I whisper back.

She pulls me in carefully. “We’re so proud of you, Har.”

I hug her tight, mindful of the baby bump that feels like it’s doubled in size since I was home for spring break. I take a step back and rest both my hands on her belly. “Hi there, little one. Aunt Harleigh is home, so you can come out and play anytime now.”

“Don’t count on it,” Matty mutters. “This child is taking up permanent residence inside my body.”

Daddy claps a hand on my shoulder. I turn, bury my face in his chest, and inhale deeply as his arms envelop me. The smell of his aftershave is my favorite scent in the world.

“It’s good to have you home, baby girl,” he says into my hair before pulling back. “Look at you. A college graduate and already landed a fancy job before you’ve even unpacked. I’m so proud.”

The Belicourt Resort Hotel looms in my mind—its imposing lobby, polished floors, historic woodwork, and grand chandeliers that have witnessed a century of celebrations.

I worked for a luxury resort ranch in Saratoga that offered excellent intern credits the last two summers.

Learned event logistics, vendor negotiations, guest services, and crisis management when a wedding cake collapsed thirty minutes before a reception.

So, when my professor discovered the position was opening at Belicourt, just thirty miles outside Wildhaven, he suggested I apply.

I had a strong recommendation from my manager at the resort ranch, and Belicourt offered me the position of social events and conference planning manager two weeks before graduation.

I start after the summer, when the current manager retires. Which is perfect timing. I’ll be here to pitch in around Wildhaven Storm while Matty is out of commission.

The Belicourt is not the guest ranch.

But it’s a beginning.

“It’s a good stepping stone,” I say, trying to sound nonchalant instead of bursting with excitement. “Experience. Connections. Understanding and managing guest expectations at a high level.”

Charli arches a brow. “Listen to you. You sound like a brochure.”

“I do not.”

“No, she sounds nervous,” Shelby says.

“Do I?”

Grandma Evelyn steps forward and cups my face in her weathered hands. “Education and experience are well and good, sweetheart. But you just remember who you are, and you’ll do fine.”

I swallow. “Always.”

Because what I am is a Storm.

“Good,” she says before dropping her hands and cutting her eyes to the men. “All right, boys, let’s get this car unloaded and everything up to Harleigh’s room. Supper is almost ready. And we have a party to get started.”

By late afternoon, the ranch hums with celebratory energy.

There’s a bonfire pit, stacked high with logs, down by the lower pasture.

Strings of lights stretch between fence posts.

Shelby and Cabe argue about the playlist. Cabe’s brothers, Axle and Royce—who showed up just before supper was served—haul coolers.

Aunt Irene is setting up folding tables on the porch while Uncle Boone and Grandpa are already taste-testing Imma Jean’s desserts.

Imma Jean was my mother’s best friend. Even though Mom passed unexpectedly when I was six years old, she remained a constant in our lives. Someone we’ve leaned on for guidance and motherly advice through the years. She’s as much a part of the Storm family as anyone else.

The air smells like cut grass and woodsmoke.

I carry a box up the stairs to the big house, my boots thudding against steps I’ve climbed my entire life. My old bedroom doorframe still has faint notches marking my growth in inches from the time I started walking until high school.

Inside, the room looks mostly the same—whitewashed walls, one of Grandma’s handmade quilts on the bed, a bay window overlooking the south pasture.

But it feels different.

I’m not a kid, coming home for summer.

I’m an adult, coming home for good.

I set the box down and sit on the edge of the bed, staring out the window.

This is where the idea first rooted itself.

I was sixteen. A family from California got lost on their way to Jackson Hole and ended up at our gate.

Grandma offered them a hot meal and a place to sleep for the night.

Their little boy had never seen a horse up close.

I remember the way he stood there, wide-eyed, like he’d stepped into Narnia.

Matty let him pet one of the gentler mares.

The parents kept apologizing for trespassing, but I could see something else on their faces.

Longing. Wonder.

A desire to breathe slower.

To feel something different.

That was when it clicked.

What if people could come here on purpose?

Not to intrude. But to experience this life.

Guided trail rides. Fly fishing at dawn. Farm-to-table dinners, using Grandma’s recipes. And, yes, spa treatments with locally sourced botanicals because who doesn’t like a deep tissue massage after riding all day?

I grin to myself.

I’ve been planning. I’ve even gone so far as to scout the perfect location and had blueprints drawn up.

It will be Wildhaven Storm, just shared thoughtfully.

A knock sounds on my open door.

Matty leans against the frame, one hand on her belly.

“You hiding in here?” she asks.

“No. Just taking a minute.”

“Good, because there is a party waiting for you outside.”

“You guys didn’t have to do all of that, you know,” I say.

“Yes, we did,” she says, and her eyes fill with regret.

She wasn’t able to attend my graduation in Laramie two weeks ago because her doctor thought it was too risky to travel that far. Daddy, Charli, and Shelby came up while Grandma and Grandpa stayed behind just in case the baby decided to come early.

“Charli had you on video call, and you got to see me walk across the stage.”

She sniffles. “It wasn’t the same. I should have been there.”

“Stop it,” I say, standing and walking over to her. “It’s not like you ditched me for no good reason.”

“Right.”

“But there is something you can do to make it up to me,” I say carefully.

Might as well play on her guilt.

She studies me. “You’re not starting on this again, are you?”

“Starting on what?”

“The dude ranch.”

I sigh and flop back on the bed. “It’s not a dude ranch.”

She huffs a laugh. “That’s exactly what someone wanting to build a dude ranch would say.”

“It’s experience-based tourism,” I counter. “It’s sustainable. It’s rooted in authenticity. It would bring wide-ranging revenue streams. And—”

“Harleigh.”

I sit up.

Her eyes soften, but there’s steel underneath. Matty carries the ranch on her shoulders. Has for years. Through droughts. Through financial scares. Through trainers leaving and deals falling apart and everything else I’ve only glimpsed from the safety of my college dorm room.

“We are not a theme park,” she says gently.

“I know.”

“We’re a working ranch.”

“I know that too.”

Silence stretches between us.

“I don’t want to cheapen what we are,” she adds.

“Neither do I,” I say fiercely. “That’s the whole point. It would be small. Intentional. Curated. We’d protect the heart of this place.”

Her gaze flickers as she considers it.

I soften my voice. “Matty … there are people out there who need this place. And it would provide diversified income.”

She shakes her head. “Can we just put all the business talk aside tonight and enjoy your party?”

“I just want a chance to show you a proposal. That’s all.”

“You just graduated.”

“Exactly.”

She studies me like she’s weighing not just the idea, but me.

“Let’s get through the summer and this little one’s grand entrance. Start your job at the Belicourt,” she says finally. “Learn all you can. Prove to me that you can handle that. Then we’ll talk.”

My heart leaps. “That’s not a no.”

“It’s not a yes either.”

I launch off the bed and hug her before she can stop me.

She laughs. “Watch the belly!”

“Sorry!”

But she’s smiling.

It’s not much, but it’s something.